


Off-Kilter: October 21

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, First Time, Johnlock Roulette, Kilts, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Red Pants Monday, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes needs his flatmate to do some modeling, but even John has his limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off-Kilter: October 21

“I can see the bulge.” 

John Watson shifted uneasily under Sherlock’s gaze. “Really?”

“Yes. That’s good, then. Take it off.” Sherlock was sprawled on the chaise longue, looking intently at him. Watson shrugged out of a tweed jacket and pulled the flat pistol out of the back of his trousers. 

“What’s next? I suppose lunch is out of the question?”

“You and your physical needs are somewhat tiresome, John. Now the anorak and sports pants.”

“Not the anorak, not really. And with those horrible striped pants? Isn’t it enough that you can spot the gun under jeans, a sweater, and a sports coat?”

“Not every criminal has your impeccable fashion sense. Put them on.”

“You’re enjoying this, you sarcastic bastard.”

“I would enjoy it more if you hurried, John. This is fairly simple information and you are drawing this exercise out unnecessarily.”

“I knew I should have found something urgent to do somewhere that’s not here. Surely somewhere in London someone needs their blood pressure checked. Or their plants watered.” Grabbing the bilious green coat and the oversized weightlifting pants, John stomped off to change. Stamford had said Sherlock was unusual. Stamford had been right- Sherlock was unusual, and fascinating. And really, John was used to following orders, some odd enough, and he didn’t really have much else to do yet. But he could feel those pants leaching IQ points from his brain. 

It turned out that the newest, sleekest handgun available was easy enough to spot underneath that particular combination, but much harder to see under a puffy down vest and khakis. Skinny jeans and a plaid shirt were also fairly revealing (”Really, Sherlock? Hipster criminals?” “Stop talking and get the shoulder holster.”). By the time John had peeled that unpleasant combination off, he was very hungry and starting to feel just a bit persecuted. 

“How do you have skinny jeans in my size? You don’t know that the earth goes around the sun, but you know what skinny jeans are?”

“Unimportant. Now the kilt.” 

“The what now?”

“The kilt. Don’t be more stupid than absolutely necessary.”

“I have never worn a kilt and I am not about to start now. I refuse to wear a kilt under any circumstances.”

Sherlock paused, looking at his flatmate with intense focus. 

“You have. You have worn a kilt before. It didn’t end well. Something embarrassing.”

“Fine. Yes, and I do not want to talk about it. Can you not just extrapolate, Sherlock, about the gun in the kilt? How do I even carry a gun with a kilt on?”

A single raised eyebrow was his only answer. 

“All right. But after this, tea. Because otherwise I will turn this gun on you.” He got very little satisfaction from that; Sherlock was yawning and checking his phone and looked as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

In the loo, John looked for a moment at the kilt. Damned thing. 

He pulled down his own jeans and belted the kilt at his waist. He took the gun up and stuffed it in the waistband. 

It fell out. Stupid kilt. 

As he bent to pick up the gun, he felt the fabric of the kilt around his knees and the unfamiliar sensation of air whooshing around on his bare legs. He tried again to put the gun in its proper place, but this time he had to put it in his pants. Very strange feeling, the cold metal extending down on his arse. With that and the cool air on his bare legs he was likely to freeze to death, he thought sourly. 

He walked back in to the room, intending to make his complaints known, but the moment he rounded the corner into the living room, Sherlock saw him, and the look in Sherlock’s eyes closed his mouth again. 

“You’ve done it wrong.” Sherlock said, almost pettishly. He got up and moved closer to John, further into the doctor’s personal space than Watson was expecting. 

“Do you really expect to give a realistic facsimile of a Scotsman carrying a gun with the damn thing stuffed in your pants? Was that night in Edinburgh so traumatic that you can’t wear a kilt properly?” He reached around to take the gun. John jumped back.

“How on earth did you… no, never mind. No pants? Is that what you want? FINE!” John shouted. Pulling out the gun and slamming it on the table, he reached under the kilt and pulled his underwear down. Stepping out of them, he kicked them to the side. 

The explosion, Sherlock thought, was understandable and almost predictable. The red pants less so - he heroically refrained from comment, though his gaze lingered on them, lying crumpled on the dusty floor, still holding the imprint of John’s body.

When he looked up, Watson had already put the gun carefully into the kilt and was standing, back to him.

“Much better.” Sherlock’s words were caught in his throat somehow. There was little better than what stood before him. John’s broad shoulders were set, his back military straight, his legs bare and muscular. The desire he so rarely felt rose up in him all of a sudden, and he could not continue his analysis. Breathless, he approached the other man; when he was close enough to touch him, he simply did, reaching out to John’s kilted hip and feeling the warmth of his body under the wool.

“The gun’s not there, Sherlock.” John’s voice came through the air as from a great distance. Sherlock slid his hand towards the gun. Just drawing up that eternal jumper was exciting; as he curled his finger around the gun’s grip, his finger brushed the soft skin of John’s back. He could smell John’s clean skin, his soap and shampoo, the slight mustiness of the sweater. 

John himself stood perfectly still, though he didn’t know why. His impatience was submerged in the immediacy of Sherlock’s presence behind and around him. Was this some new manifestation of the detective’s genius or was it something completely different? 

Then Sherlock pulled the gun out from the waistband of the kilt, and John stopped thinking. The slide of the now-warm metal against that sensitive spot on his body was all-consuming, and he swayed slightly. His cock was gradually rising, rubbing against the rough fabric. The cool air provided a stimulating counterpoint, and in the time it took for Sherlock to pull the gun out, John was fully erect. 

Deep breath. How to deal with this? There was no sporran to mitigate the tenting effect his erection was having on the kilt, and the awkwardness of this situation was increasing rapidly. 

“What is happening right now, Sherlock?”

“Sexual arousal,” he breathed, “Unusual for me. Don’t move.”

“I thought physical needs were tiresome. Also, I am not gay.”

“They are, and that is immaterial.” Sherlock came closer, looked over John’s shoulder. “Definitely immaterial.”

“That is mostly because,” John inhaled sharply as Sherlock’s hand, now empty of the gun, trailed back to grip his hip again, “I haven’t touched a woman in over two years.”

“Hm,” said Sherlock momentarily distracted, “Not the whole truth. You’re a bad liar, John.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Evading. You’re evading. Both what’s happening now and what happened last year, whatever that is.” Sherlock’s hand travelled down John’s body to the place where the kilt ended, sliding over the hem and on to bare leg, then back up. 

John remained immobile. Sherlock’s hand was warm on his cool leg, and the whole hand was moving to span the muscle of his thigh. The intensity of the moment and the utter deliciousness of the touch held him still, despite the strangeness.

The detective stepped closer, pressing his body to John’s back. Sherlock’s erection, hot even through his trousers, came into contact with John’s firm, kilt-clad arse just as his hand slid up dangerously, thrillingly close to John’s heavy cock. 

And yet, for all that, it was the intimate bending towards John, a hot breath on his ear, that caused the doctor to jump away and whirl to face his flatmate.

“This is beyond the appropriate boundaries of friendship, Sherlock. It really is.”

“Yes, of course. I know that. I said that. It’s unusual.” Almost pettish again, Sherlock reached out again to take John’s hand and bring him back into that closeness charged with novelty and desire. 

John took a step back.

“I can’t do this right now, Sherlock.”

“Then let me.”

“No. Not now. This is…not now, Sherlock.”

“This isn’t rational, John. You want this. I want this. Let me touch you.”

“You have lost your mind. Truly.” Very unconvincing tone.

“Is this because you’re hungry? You’re always a sod when you’re…” Seeing the sudden horror on John’s expressive, mobile face, Sherlock paused. “Wrong choice of words.”

John laughed suddenly and explosively, easing the tension somewhat. 

“I’ll go to the shops.” Turning on his heel, he left the room, shaking his head to clear it as he went. 

Sherlock bent to pick up the red pants, and fell back on the couch, taking deep breaths. He really did not understand ordinary people; how John could simply walk away from so much sexual arousal was beyond him. He himself would not be able to think about anything other than his desire until it was satisfied, and satisfied by John. Preferably John with that kilt on.

Sherlock closed his eyes and brought the image of John's back to his mind again. He felt the pulse of his cock again, insistent, and reached for his zipper. As he pushed his pants down, his erection sprang up, hard, hot, and damp. As he closed his hand around himself, he sighed. It was a poor substitute, he thought, licking his thumb and running it around the head, but it would have to do for now. He started stroking rhythmically, bringing erotic images to his mind. Methodically, he flicked through pictures of John: John standing in the kilt, John trembling under his touch, John's erection under the kilt, John's arse against his cock. Then, as his balls began to tighten, he went further: John sprawled on the couch, cock uncovered. John shuddering as he was sucked, John opening his mouth to take Sherlock in... _oh_. 

Sherlock breathed deeply, wiped himself, and zipped himself up, crumpling John's discarded pants in one hand. Better. Much better. Not perfect, but better.

Just then, John came quickly back down the stairs, trouser-clad and looking slightly shamefaced. He had not, then, left himself unsatisfied, Sherlock knew. 

"Evading, John." he said, as John went quickly out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start of a short series. I hope you like them!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Off-Kilter: October 21' by redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6124834) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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